


Understanding

by icedcoffeebro



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Misery - Stephen King
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, M/M, Recovery, Suggestive, they deserve happiness, this is for a very specific niche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28658646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedcoffeebro/pseuds/icedcoffeebro
Summary: At a bar in NYC, two men with seemingly nothing in common meet.orPaul Sheldon just escaped Annie Wilkes, and Bill Denbrough just killed It. And they're both so lonely.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Paul Sheldon
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this last February, and I've been pretty irregular with it because Global Pandemic, but it's done!!! Unedited!!! And done!!!
> 
> Anyways a year ago I received this message on Twitter, and now the sender is one of my best friends in the world so this is for xem <3\. A token of my appreciation. I know you like my writing and this is like. our ship that only us two ship <3
> 
> Also yeah I coined this ship pretty much if you think u recognize it lmaoooo. I am not in that fandom anymore tho <3

There is something utterly terrifying about being known.

Paul knows this better than anyone. Being known cost him _oh so very much._

And now, he sits in his New York apartment. In front of a computer, trying his best to gather what he had lost. To gather the _will_ to take back what was ripped away from him. His livelihood. His passion. He closes his eyes, unable to get his hands to connect to the keyboard. 

It’s futile. He slams the computer closed. There are tears in his eyes. He’s in so much pain and the hospital won’t give him the stuff he needs. 

So he grabs his coat, his keys, and his walking sticks and heads out, thinking of the bar across the street. He needs a drink. Hell, he _deserves_ a drink. 

He limps all the way through. He hates the looks on people’s faces as they see him. He feels paranoid now. Like everyone is out to get him. But there’s also the factor that he still looks very beaten up. He’s just starting to regain weight and skin still hangs from his face. 

He’s taken into working out, a tip his therapist gave him so he would regain his bodily autonomy. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel like he did before Annie Wilkes. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe she killed that version of himself, and he had to adapt into that rather than try and go back. Embrace the change. 

Doing so isn’t a choice. It’s how he’ll _survive._

He gets to the bar and makes an effort to get into a stool. He orders a whiskey on the rocks, then puts his head on his crossed arms on top of the counter.

He’s on the verge of becoming an alcoholic, and he knows it (He’s already an addict who cares who cares who cares); but sometimes we just find something and let it kill us.

_He should’ve let her kill him._

That thought has been haunting him ever since he escaped. It’s the kind of thought that’ll plague you, consume you until there’s nothing left, until the thought becomes your reality. 

He wonders if he took the right choices. 

He wonders if he should finish what Annie started himself.

He drowns the thought down with the remains of his drink, then asks for a refill. 

His goal is that, when he struggles to get home, it’s because of inebriation, rather than all the phantom pain. 

Paul is a man who has lost everything. All he has going for himself as of now is the fact his novel is at its second print batch. But he can’t let himself feel too good about it; it’s a good novel, Hell, it’s a _great_ novel. But people aren’t buying it because of that. They’re buying it because of its context. A man is forced to write a novel while being held captive… It wouldn’t matter if it was a piece of steaming garbage and he was a nobody; it would sell. 

Tragedy often does. 

“Vodka,” a voice says beside him. He smirks. A singular word, said with the confidence most men can only dream of. The bartender slides Paul his whiskey, and he immediately grabs it up to his lips. 

He stops short of drinking it when he feels the vodka man’s eyes on him. He returns the look, he’s used to people staring, he looks terrible, but the man beside him isn’t staring, he just has his eyes on him. He’s on that pleasant head on the clouds stage. The stage Paul should stop on but knows he won’t, he offers the man a smile and takes a small sip of his whiskey, then dries off his mouth using the back of his hand. 

“Paul,” he says to the other man, who shakes his head as if waking up, he offers him his hand and the stranger shakes it. 

“Bill,” he says, and if he recognizes Paul, he says nothing (Paul is so _sick_ of being recognized, leads him back to the dreadful feeling that everyone is out to hurt him).

He takes another drink of his whiskey, “You new here?” he could be a local, and Paul could never tell. Every face he sees comes and goes. 

Bill nods, “Moved from LA, ex-wife had better lawyers,” 

_Divorced_. Paul notes, “A story old as time,”

Bill shrugs. The bartender hands him his vodka, and he starts drinking it. Paul licks his lips, “First divorce?” he asks. Bill nods, still too occupied on his iced glass of vodka. “It gets better the second time around,” Bill smiles weakly, stirring his drink. 

Paul then focuses on his own drink again. He nurses the glass and drinks slowly. The man beside him drinks the same, and Paul wonders. He wonders about Bill’s life; what brings him to a beat down Brooklyn bar in the middle of a Tuesday evening? 

However, these questions don’t interest Paul enough to enquire further. 

And so he drinks.

And he drinks.

And he drinks.

And the man beside him drinks the same, and Paul wonders if he’s like him, if the alcohol goes down oh so easily down his throat. If it feels like coming home. If it’s a slow suicide for him as well. 

_(he wonders a lot, he’s a writer, after all)_

Again, he doesn’t care enough to ask.

After enough drinks to make him feel normal (he doesn’t know how many those are anymore) he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns his whole body to face the owner.

“I’m sorry if I’m presumptuous,” he says, and he sounds fine, Paul takes note, “but do you want to get out of here?” Paul raises his eyebrows, “I mean,” Bill closes his eyes, then sighs, “yeah,”

Paul looks around, then turns back to look at the bar. Bill knits his brows, scared he read it all wrong, but then Paul takes out . He looks around one more time, then signaling the exit, grabbing for his walking sticks. 

***

The way Bill is kissing him is desperate, like he’s been waiting his entire life for this, for Paul. Paul gets lost in the feeling of Bill’s lips against his neck, his nails digging deep into Bill’s back, two layers of clothing stopping him from leaving marks. Paul wants them _off_ , but for that, he needs Bill to stop grinding on him (but it feels _so good_ ). So instead, he opts to get his hands under Bill’s clothes. Which makes the other man moan into the bites he is giving his neck (he’s thankful he can get away with wearing turtlenecks).

Bill hadn’t mentioned his lack of thumb. Bill hadn’t asked any questions, he hadn’t treated him like a helpless being upon seeing him grab his walking sticks to get out of the bar. Bill had just walked at the same speed Paul had, talking about New York in the Winter. And Paul, the perpetual romantic writer (can’t escape it), can tell from the way Bill talks that he’s a man well acquainted with loneliness. He talks as if to fill a void, as if something terribly awful will happen once Paul’s attention is elsewhere.

So Paul extends the same courtesy back, and asks nothing. 

On the short walk from the bar to his department, Paul had learned three fundamental things about Bill. One: he was from New England, same as Paul, two: he was an author, what exactly did he write Paul wasn’t sure, they didn’t exchange full names, he never paid much to author pictures that weren’t his own, and three: something terrible had happened to him.

Once they get to his room, he throws the other man down onto the bed and allows himself to take a good, hard, unashamed look; Bill’s around his age, he has a white streak of hair that must be natural given how ridiculous it is, he has the sleeves of his flannel rolled up, showing strong arms, and he looks _unbelievable._

“What?” Bill asks, smiling at Paul. And it feels so _real_ , Paul feels light headed. He shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, “take it all off,” Bill raises his eyebrows, but Paul doesn’t say anything else, so he simply complies.

“I–” Paul begins, once both him and Bill are on their briefs. Since the event he has only been with one person– a woman he met in his support group. It hadn’t gone well, “I prefer taking it off,” Bill raises an eyebrow, Paul sighs and points at his prosthetic leg.

“Oh, sure, go ahead, man,” Bill says, turning his eyes away from Paul.

Paul frowns, “It’s okay,”

“Sorry,”

“Don’t,” he sits on the edge of his bed and takes off his prosthetic, he turns to look at the other man; his mouth hangs open and his hair is plastered over his forehead (Paul can’t wait to pull that glorious hair), Paul takes a deep breath, then says “let’s just do this,” Bill’s eyes light up, and Paul can’t help but smirk. 

***

The next morning, Paul is alone. 

Every time he wakes up, he reminds himself of two facts: he’s alive, and Annie Wilkes is dead. He has to repeat it over and over in his head, because the ghosts that live inside his head all look just like the nurse who _loved_ Misery Chastain so damn much. 

He sits in front of the computer, and for the first time since escaping, he feels like the words he writes can reach the right person. That he ( _still_ ) has something of value to say. 

As if Annie Wilkes hadn’t taken an invaluable part of him. Like she hadn’t broken his spirit and livelihood. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels the tears dropping on his hands as he types and types and types and

***

Four months later, he walks into his agent’s office holding a manuscript. He holds it to his chest, ready for the inevitable rejection; it’s not Misery Chastain, after all– it’s not romance at all. 

He can already hear them ask how they are supposed to sell this. They had already given him enough grief over him being unwilling to write an account of his experience bedridden under the care of a murderous nurse. He grunts at the mere thought. Then shakes it off. 

_They’ll listen because it’s you. Because you’re Paul fucking Sheldon._

He’s so focused on this that he doesn’t notice another man making an entrance. Until he hears him say:

“Shit,”

Paul looks up, annoyed at the interrupting of his own thoughts, but his frown quickly vanishes when he sees the man in front of him. 

A man he looked for every time he went back to the pub (whether he did this consciously, Paul wasn’t sure), a man he had let himself be seen by, a man who left without a trace, not even leaving a piece of paper with his name. 

His lips form a smile, he can’t help it, “Bill,” he says, the man in front of him seems frozen in the moment, Paul then notices he, like him, is carrying a manuscript, “first time?”

Bill opens his mouth, but before he can answer, a woman comes out the door, calling for Paul. He throws an apologetic look at Bill, Bill gives him a look that means don’t worry, then sits on the couch, waiting for his own agent. 

***

When Bill gets out of his agent’s office, holding his flannel over his forearm, Paul is sitting in the waiting room, bouncing his right foot until he notes Bill, then he stands up. 

“Hey,” he offers him a smile, Bill smiles back, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Bill says, putting his flannel back on. 

***

Turns out, Paul had it all wrong. Bill was on his sixth published book. And he wasn’t just Bill. He was William Denbrough. He hadn’t known who Paul was, he wasn’t keen on romance (his words). 

The New York winter air was chilly. Bill, used to LA’s winter after 2 years living there, rubbed his hands together, puffing hot air into them from time to time. 

Paul gets out a box from his pocket. Bill notices, after these few months, his moves are smoother, and his face doesn’t read as _pain_. Bill licks his lips, then dries them off with the back of his hand. Paul opens the box, then offers it to Bill, a cigarette peaking out. Bill takes it, he doesn’t smoke much at all, last time being at Richie’s, when he was trying to unwind. He discovered Richie had a taste for shitty cheap weed. Paul was just offering him tobacco, Bill finds himself not caring about whether the smoke is shitty or not. Paul lights it up for him, creating a small cover for it with his hands, and Bill admires how close he is. He then proceeds to light up his own cigarette.

They sit. Smoking in silence, watching kids dance and fall and stand up again over and over on the ice rink. Bill, not used to the feel of smoke on his lungs, disposes of his cigarette before he even gets halfway through. 

“I thought I lost you,” Paul breaks the silence, then takes a long drag of his cigarette. They hold eye contact then. 

“You found me,” his look lowers down to the other man’s lips, then back to his eyes. Paul has his cigarette hanging out from his mouth, he smirks and holds it, leans in, taking on Bill’s dreamy face, and then puts his cigarette on Bill’s mouth. 

“A preview?” Paul teases. And Bill can’t be mad. He breathes in the smoke, and Paul has never seen anything as attractive. He catches his breath and says:

“Wanna show me your place?”

Bill kills the cigarette on the sidewalk floor, “Thought you’d never ask,”

***

Bill is unlike any other guy Paul’s been with. 

For one, he seems to be elsewhere, and yet he’s here. All at once. 

As a lover, he’s so willing to please. It’d be pathetic if it didn’t work so well. 

After three failed marriages, Paul knew better than to fall for a pretty face. 

Thing is, Bill was a pretty face, and so much more. 

He was kind, he was smart, he was patient, and he didn’t push.

And it all seems like the perfect recipe for disaster. 

But damn it, Paul is a sucker for a good love story. 

***

The thing about Bill– and anyone who’s spent a few hours around him knows this. Is that there’s a certain mystery around him. If asked, Bill will say it’s nothing; he’s just tired, his head is elsewhere, he hasn’t written at all that day. 

Whenever any questions about his past arise, he simply doesn’t answer; no diversion, no shrug of the shoulders, just lets the question hang in the air, unanswered. 

While this could be frustrating for other people, Paul finds it comforting. Bill is comforting. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t tell.

***

Paul loves deeply. He considers this his fatal flaw. 

He looks at Bill’s back and can’t help but imagine connecting his freckles to form constellations. It’s easy with Bill. He hasn’t spent any time at his apartment, he’s taken into spending entire days at Bill’s. They’re both at that point after finishing a novel when the last thing they want to do is write. So they’re at each other’s full mercy. Both needing someone to confide on. Paul tells him about his kids and Bill tells him about his friends. 

Neither of them talk about what happened to them. 

They spend the day smoking and shotgunning weed, and it’s an utter and complete waste of time. 

But time is all they have. 

***

It’s a hot day, Bill is laying on Paul’s lap, reading a book and letting the cold air from the AC hit his bare legs. Paul has his book down, marking his place with his right thumb. After lots of thinking, he asks:

“Do you think I should write about it?”

Bill doesn’t look away from his book, “About what?”

“What happened,”

“I don’t think I follow,”

Paul frowns, looking at Bill’s blank face. Waiting for him to laugh, to throw the punchline. But it doesn’t come. 

In that moment Paul realizes; Bill doesn’t know what happened to him. He’s not in on the joke, he doesn’t know it at all. 

He studies his face, “Bill, you really don’t know,” Not a question. 

Bill shrugs, in Derry, forgetting and ignoring was survival. 

He still hasn’t figured out how forgetting and ignoring goes with his current life, with New York, with Paul. If he needs to forget as soon as it ends. 

If him learning whatever Paul is hiding would make it all end. If he’d need to grab his things and run. 

If he was truly as safe as he thought. 

They spend a long time in silence, Bill returning to his book, scanning over the words and understanding none of them. Paul feels tense under him. 

“Okay,” Paul says after a while, Bill freezes, “I’ll tell,”

And Bill listens, and as he does, he thinks of how he’s not ready to tell his story. But when time comes, he does. And they cry. And they kiss. And they are closer than they could ever be. 

*** 

They’re writers, it should be easy to go outside. However, one was married to an A-list celebrity, and the other spent months confined because of a crazy fan. Their reputation precedes them. 

On average, they’re recognized by a dozen people each day. Paul more than Bill, but they’re mostly both recognized. They haven’t gone public, but the gossip columns are too busy to dissect why exactly they’re spotted together so often. Fans speculate they’re planning to write a novel together, which they’re considering, but haven’t reached concrete yet. 

They’re both okay with being an open secret. And it might be unconventional, and some queer activists might shake their heads upon hearing this. But it’s their reality. And they love each other. 

There’s _understanding_. And there’s something like hope. Something to stay. 

And they’re not giving it up anytime soon. 

Because Bill Denbrough lived.  
Because Paul Sheldon survived. 

And they found each other.

**Author's Note:**

> pls kudos and comments ;3;


End file.
